After the Deluge
by OldSFfan
Summary: House and Wilson seek shelter from a storm but are followed by an old nemesis. A one-shot, post Season 8.


House, Wilson, Cuddy, and other characters from the series House M.D. are not mine, and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. This is AU, several years after Season 8. Wilson has survived his cancer. House and Cuddy are married and have two children, Rachel, and to their surprise, Cuddy has carried a pregnancy nearly to term to produce a boy, Robert.

There are two original characters: Dr. Hannah Steinberg and Dr. Fiona Buchanan Wilson. Professor Steinberg first appeared in my Airwolf fiction, "Songs of Air and Sea." I like her, so she's back, about twenty-five years older. The geography of the condominium complex where this story is set, in a New York City suburb on a point between a creek and the Hudson River, is a fantasy. I have intensified the already serious effects of Hurricane Irene on the New York and New Jersey area in a new, and unnamed hurricane. Since I began this story, events have been overtaken by Hurricane Sandy.

One-shot. Rated T for language.

* * *

After the Deluge

"It's just a damn rainstorm," Gregory House complained. "Why would they close the New Jersey Turnpike for a rainstorm?" His hair was soaking wet from the dash, or in his case, limp, from the parking lot. His raincoat was dripping on a hanger on the shower curtain rod in the guest bath next to Wilson's sodden raincoat. He finished wiping his cane dry with a paper towel and looked for a waste basket.

"Kvetch, kvetch," Hannah Steinberg comforted him. "They're just trying to keep people from driving around through flood water and falling trees. Lisa and the kids are safe at home in Princeton. Fiona is with them." She dropped batteries into another flashlight and screwed the top back on. "You know the power is going to go out - might as well get ready for it. We've got bottled water, food, and lots of batteries. The piano and guitar are acoustic so we can play unplugged. You and James will probably get home tomorrow."

Wilson looked at Hannah standing next to House. The top of her gray head didn't reach the top of his shoulder. "Unplugged, huh?" House said. "Wilson is frantic - Fiona is six months along." Wilson was wearing a path in the wood floor. "Anyway, I have to call my parole officer and tell her that we've arrived at your apartment. She almost insisted that I stay in Manhattan at a shelter." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and walked into the kitchen.

Hannah shook her head. Wilson knew that House's legal troubles had perplexed her for years. "James," Hannah said gently, catching him in mid-pace with a hand on his arm. He stopped and looked down at her. "Fiona is healthy. The baby isn't due for what, three months? She's with Lisa, and she'll be fine until you get home."

"I should never have gone along with this trip. House could've got here without me."

"Well, I'm not sure my parole officer would have let me, without you," House said, walking back into the living room. "Of course, it would have been a good excuse not to come. I don't like to be away from Lisa and the kids. They're shutting down the New Jersey state government due to the storm. My parole officer said just to leave a message if I call her."

He limped over to the mantle to examine the photographs. Among them was the wedding photo Lisa had sent to Hannah. Lisa was in her white wedding suit, pregnancy obvious, with Rachel standing in front of her in her little lilac-colored satin dress. House stood to Lisa's right, wearing a dark blue suit with a yarmulke resting on his curly, graying chestnut hair. He had shaved off his scruff for the wedding. Wilson, on House's right in the photograph, was still gaunt from chemotherapy. A yarmulke rested on the thin, dark, fuzz just growing in on his head. His arms were linked with his tall, red-haired wife.

"I approve of your décor," he told Hannah. "We'll send you a picture of Bobby."

"Please do. Besides the family, that's a great picture of Fiona. You know, she was my best post-doc. Princeton's geology department was very lucky to get her."

"Wilson proposed the day she got tenure." House chuckled. "And he knocked her up on the wedding night."

"House!" Wilson objected. He returned to the old argument. "An invitation to give the keynote address at an important conference was too good to pass up. Foreman wanted you to do it. Lisa wanted you to do it."

"Lisa isn't my dean, anymore." Wilson thought House was sounding whiny.

"But she hasn't forgotten how these things work, just because she's director of another hospital."

"Whatever." House watched the storm morosely. Wilson knew that House's damaged leg ached in the hurricane's low pressure. "I agreed to do it because New York is close enough that we'd be away from home only two nights. We should have gotten back to Princeton by this afternoon. I hate conferences. I hate walking all over a convention center from one panel to another. I publish at least three papers a year - that ought to be enough." He barked a laugh. "A keynote address _and_ a hurricane – that should get me out of conferences until I retire!"

House stood next to Hannah, towering over her. Wilson, almost as tall, stood on her other side. "Wilson," he began, "Do you know how a hurricane sees?"

"No, House," Wilson repeated, "How does a hurricane see?"

"With one eye," House replied, without missing a beat. "Wilson," House continued, "What happens when it rains cats and dogs?"

"I don't know, House. What happens when it rains cats and dogs?"

"You have to be careful not to step in a poodle. Wilson," he began again.

"Oh God," Hannah groaned.

Undeterred, House asked, "What type of lightning likes to play sports?"

"Beats me, House," Wilson responded dutifully.

"Ball lightning, obviously."

"Hate to toss you two stand-up wannabees out into the perfect storm…." Hannah threatened. She grinned. "But you can't get to me, because geologists are so well grounded."

It was House's turn to groan.

Mercilessly, Hannah continued, "But it's gneiss that I can take it for granite."

"He who would pun would pick your pocket," Wilson quoted from _Master and Commander_.

Undeterred, House went on, "Wilson."

"Wait, wait, wait…" Hannah interrupted, then giggled.

"Gee, Wilson," House observed, "We've reduced Professor Steinberg to a helpless puddle, sort of like those puddles out on the sidewalk, or should I say, poodles."

Hannah collapsed on the chair by the piano, hand over her mouth.

House made the V for Victory sign, as he settled on the piano bench. He opened the lid over the keys.

Wilson shook his head. In tones reserved for peace negotiations, he said, "Hannah, we both really appreciate your offer of a place to stay. When they ordered the evacuation of lower Manhattan and then the hotel was closed, I thought we'd get stuck in a shelter. Did we interrupt your work?"

"No, I'm actually between papers and grant proposals. Feels good. I do have to write a mid-term and critique my Ph.D. student's latest draft of his dissertation. But there's plenty of time and I don't need the internet to do that."

"Well, then, should we dub this a hurricane party?"

The rain pounded on the condo's windows. Trees around the parking lot were whipping around as if they would break. The Hudson River, normally visible through the trees to the left of the parking lot, was lost behind the rain and mist. The building shook in a strong gust of wind. "You're always welcome here. Just don't call this a 'hurricane party.' You two aren't old enough to remember the 'hurricane party' in 1959 in Mississippi when some folks in a three-story apartment building on the beach decided to celebrate Hurricane Camille. It was a category five storm. One person from the building survived."

"I saw something about that on the Discovery Channel." Wilson went to the French doors to look at the storm. "Is this place above the storm surge?"

"Yeah. It would have to be three times the height of Hurricane Katrina's surge to get here. But that creek by the parking lot, that's got me worried. It's flooded before. You may not have noticed but you crossed it on a culvert to get here." Hannah joined Wilson to look out over the porch. "James, where did you park?"

"Behind the building in guest parking. House said that's the usual place."

"Good, because I think the front parking lot is flooding." Wilson joined Hannah at the porch doors. A half dozen cars remained parked near the upper entrance of the parking lot. "The water won't get up to the building, but the road leading to our development could be in trouble." She pressed closer to the glass. "What the…?"

House heaved himself to his feet and stood on her other side, squinting into the sheets of rain. A dark green sedan drove into the parking lot. It moved into the low spot where the water was flowing, was caught in the current, and turned sideways. It was hard to see the car through the gunmetal gray sheets of rain, but its headlights marked its path.

"Moron," House shouted fruitlessly at the car.

"It's idiotic to drive through floodwater," Hannah muttered. "Wait, maybe it's all right."

The car lurched partially out of the current but then was caught again, sweeping sideways as the driver tried to fight clear. For a moment it looked like the driver had succeeded. "No, it's still moving sideways." The car rotated again so the hood was pointed downstream. Gathering speed, it was floating. There must have been something sticking up beneath the water, because the tires gained traction just long enough for the car to lurch out of the current as if it were launched. Then it smashed head-on into a stand of poplars. One of the trees toppled slowly onto the rear of the passenger compartment.

Wilson turned and ran for the condo's door heading for the stairs to the sidewalk. Hannah ran after him. "Wait."

"There's someone in that car."

"James, stop. Let's think, here."

"That car could wash away."

"So could you. Let me call 911." She grabbed the phone from the end table. "This is Hannah Steinberg at Riverside Condos… There was a car accident in the parking lot of the complex… Good, you can see my address. No, I'm fine. A car drove into our parking lot. The lower lot is flooded and the car was nearly swept away. It jammed into some trees and a tree fell on the back end. Nobody has gotten out. It looks like about fifteen yards of fast current between us and the car."

She listened for a moment. "The road is flooded? That car got here. Is a helicopter available?" She listened for a moment. "But there may be someone badly hurt!" She blew out a breath. "I understand. Okay, we'll call back if we still need you." She listened again. "Thanks." She set the receiver back in the cradle.

Hannah looked up at House and Wilson. "The creek did flood the road. The culvert might be washed out, and the winds are too strong for a helicopter. Whoever is driving that car either got past the creek just before it flooded or drove through floodwater. We're on our own."

"Well," Wilson interrupted. "I think this one is on me. Let me try to get to the car."

Hannah shook her head. "Not alone. "It's going to take all three of us. What if there's more than one person in the car?"

"Is there anyone else in this building who could help?"

"My neighbor across the hall is out of town. My upstairs neighbor just had back surgery. The other unit upstairs is vacant."

"Okay, what do you think we should we do? And it had better be quick, because the water is rising."

"I've got a rope and some field gear in my storage bin downstairs. Be right back." She left the apartment at a run. Wilson retrieved the raincoats from the bathroom. He thought for a moment how inappropriate his good raincoat was for this.

Five minutes later, the three were running downstairs to the sidewalk below the condominium's first floor porches. As they left the building's hallway, a gust of wind staggered them. Hannah had to lean on the door to close it against the wind.

"Well," House had to shout over the wind and rain, "I better get started."

"House, you can't," Wilson protested. Eerily, the wind dropped for a moment.

House took Wilson's statement like a blow. "Pathetic cripple can't handle it, huh?" he said, anger and resignation both in his voice. "Wilson, you're still in recovery from chemotherapy. You can't do it."

"You're our safety," Wilson hollered back, as the wind picked up again and the rain blasted them. "You have the strength to pull us in. I don't think I'd try this, if you weren't here." He looked at Hannah. "You shouldn't go with me."

"I'm tougher than I look," she said, ruining it by staggering in a gust of wind.

House shrugged skeptically, then he braced himself against one of the porch supports, wrapping the rope around the wood and then his back. He took a firm grip on the rope and stood with his legs braced. He hooked his cane over the railing behind him.

Hannah and Wilson moved cautiously across the strip of lawn, aiming for the narrowest place to get across the current. They stepped off the curb into ankle-high floodwater. Hannah was wearing yellow, chest-high waders and a rain slicker, so she was easy to spot through the downpour. The water was soon up to her knees. Wilson, with his gray raincoat barely visible through the rain, led the way. Each had a loop of rope around the waist for safety. Branches, soda cans, and other debris rushed by, floating in the current. They dodged the larger stuff. They walked with a shuffle to feel where they were stepping, unable to see what was under the water.

House played out the blue and white rope from the coil over his shoulder. As the water reached above Hannah's knees, she lost her footing. Wilson felt the jerk on the rope as House flung a loop of the rope back over his shoulders and the tension in the rope allowed Hannah to hang on until Wilson was able to grab her and pull her to her feet. After that, they linked arms and pushed forward against the wind and rain. The rushing water made a white front around their knees and left a wake behind them.

After a few harrowing minutes, they reached the lawn on the far side of the parking lot and scrambled up the sloping lawn toward the line of trees. Here the water was only a few inches deep. They turned to their left to reach the car. The rope was taut and no more was left to play out. Wilson waved at House and tied the end off on a tree. Head down against the gusts, they moved down along the line of trees until they reached the stranded car. They edged around the fallen tree to reach the driver's door.

Hannah jerked the car door open. The driver half fell out so that Wilson had to grab him. He draped the driver's arm over his shoulders. The man resisted for a moment. Hannah dove into the front seat of the car and slung the strap of a maroon duffel over her shoulders so the bag hung behind her. She moved to the other side of the injured man and put her arm around his waist. He was a big man, broad and taller than Wilson, slumped so only the top of his head and his white or light blond hair were visible. For a moment he looked familiar, but Wilson was too busy grappling with his semi-conscious bulk to get a good look at him. The wind at their back finally seemed to be in their favor. They half-dragged him back up the line of trees to where they could cross the current.

They reached the tied-off rope and retrieved it. Wilson fastened it around his own waist, passed it around the stranger, and tied it off around Hannah. The three of them started back across the flooded pavement like a weird, six-legged crab, moving sideways. Wilson thought that the flood had risen in the few minutes since they had been in it.

Just as the trio approached the middle of the current, a car upstream from their position was picked up and swept toward them. Through the howling wind, Wilson heard House yell a warning. The rope jerked hard. Wilson felt it and saw the danger. Dragged by House's desperate pull, Wilson tugged Hannah and the rescued man through the waist-high water. The car floated by just where they had been standing. The stranger was barely conscious and Wilson staggered under his weight.

The rest of the trip back to safety was through shallower water. As the trio reached the sidewalk, House bent over, leaning against the railing, frantically rubbing his thigh. "Are you okay?" Wilson asked him. He was conscious of the rain dripping down the back of his neck and pouring over his soaked hair and down his face. His shoes were ruined.

"Strained my leg. See to him," House said, jerking his head toward the rescued man.

Hannah got under the shelter of the overhanging porch. "Greg," she said, touching his arm. "Thank you. You saved us."

"I'm sorry. It should have been me out there."

"Greg, you saved our lives! I'm trying to thank you."

He looked up. "De nada," he said, shrugging. "Wilson, get him inside. He's bleeding."

Now that they were out of the downpour, blood from the stranger's forehead was dropping to the concrete. "Put him on the sofa in my living room," Hannah suggested. "I'll get some towels." She turned to House. "Can you make it upstairs?"

He straightened. "Yeah, but I can't carry him. See if he can manage."

Hannah and Wilson climbed the half flight of stairs with the injured man stumbling between them. House followed behind them, pulling himself up each step using the railing. Hannah pushed open the door of her apartment and together with Wilson she eased the stranger onto the sofa seat and leaned him against the cushions.

Wilson finally got a good look at the stranger. He yelled, "Tritter, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Following House," the stranger slurred. "He's here for the drugs."

House pushed the apartment door open in time to hear Tritter. "Are you crazy?" House shouted.

"Wait," Hannah broke in. "You know this guy?"

Wilson and House looked hard at the big man. Tritter looked older and tired, but he was still intimidating. "This is Detective Michael Tritter," House spat the name, "Of the Princeton, New Jersey, Police Department. Just a little out of your jurisdiction, here, in New York State, aren't you, Tritter?"

House's tirade was cut short by Tritter passing out. He slumped so he nearly fell forward off the sofa. Wilson caught him and pushed him back against the cushions. "Wilson, bring our medical bags, would you?" House asked, as he grabbed the box of tissue on the end table and pushed a wad against the dripping wound on Tritter's forehead. Hannah slipped the strap of Tritter's bag off her shoulder and let it fall to the floor. "Hannah, better get those towels."

Tritter came around and jerked upright, pushing House's hands away.

"Get off me."

Hannah stepped between House and Tritter. She leaned down so her face was right in front of the detective. "You're in my home and you will be civil. You've got two doctors here to take care of you, more than you deserve after the breathtaking stupidity of driving into a flood. Shut up and let them help you!"

Startled, Tritter sat up and closed his mouth.

"Thirty years of teaching pays off," House murmured.

"And wrangling grad students," Hannah replied, keeping her voice down, as she got out of the way. "James, Greg, I want to change into some dry clothes after I get the towels."

House nodded, still kneading his leg. "Better get a bucket too. We'll get the detective into dry clothes, if he has any."

"Good idea," Hannah agreed, and disappeared down the hallway. She returned carrying a stack of towels and a yellow plastic bucket. She pulled the slicker off and the frizzy ends of her gray hair escaped from her braid and made a halo around her face. "I'll be right back," she said. "We still have hot water, so I'm going to rinse myself off in the shower. James, you might wash off too - floodwater is filthy. Greg, you didn't get out in the flood, but are you okay?"

"I'm just damp," House said. "You go ahead."

He and Wilson got Tritter into dry jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt from his bag. Wilson was bandaging Tritter's wound when Hannah came back in jeans and a blue sweatshirt, feet in dry sneakers, wet hair in a pony tail. "That's better," she said. How is he doing?"

House lifted the badge and gun thoughtfully from Tritter's bag, put them back into the bag and moved the bag out of Tritter's reach. "Is that why you risked your life to grab his suitcase?" he asked Hannah.

"He was concerned about leaving them in the car."

House used a penlight to look at Tritter's eyes. "Concussion." He put the light away.

"Let's make him comfortable," Wilson said. He stepped around the coffee table and helped Tritter to recline against the pillows at the end of the sofa. He lifted his legs up.

House sat down on a chair by the sofa and massaged his thigh with both hands for a minute.

"Greg, can I get you something?" Hannah asked softly.

"There's a few prescriptions in my suitcase, in the zipper pocket. Would you get me the ibuprofen? Amber bottle. And my cell phone from my jacket pocket, while you're at it."

Tritter sat up and shouted, "Ibuprofen, hell. I've got you now, House." The effect was ruined by the sound of Tritter gagging and throwing up. Hannah sprinted to the guest bedroom to get House's medication as the stream of vomit hit the plastic bucket.

When she ran back into the living room, House said, "It's okay. We got the bucket to him in time. Hannah, I'm so sorry I drew this trouble to you."

"Not your fault. Let's just do what we have to do right now." Hannah handed the pill bottle to him. He dumped several pills into his hand and dry-swallowed them. "Call 911 again. Maybe they can get an ambulance out here and take him off our hands."

A particularly strong wind gust rattled the windows and shook the building. The lights flickered, then came back on. "Oh oh," Hannah murmured. "Here we go."

Wilson made the 911 call this time. He identified Hannah's address. "I'm Doctor Wilson. I'm staying with Professor Steinberg. Yes, I'm a medical doctor. We have a middle-aged Caucasian male, about six-four, two hundred twenty pounds, impact wound on the left forehead, probably from hitting the car door. He has a concussion, intermittent loss of consciousness, and nausea. It does not appear to be a fracture, but he needs to have a scan and twenty-four hours of observation in a hospital."

He listened for a moment. "So there's no chance of reaching us right now. Okay, we'll do what we can." He hung up. "Still no luck on the ambulance," he told Hannah and House. "They don't expect to be able to get any help out until probably late this afternoon at the earliest. Tomorrow is more likely." He turned to Tritter. "You're not getting a ride to the hospital right away. We'll do our best for you."

Tritter snarled at House. "I don't trust you."

"It's mutual. You may not believe it, but I intend to treat you like I would any patient. Our personal history is irrelevant."

"I don't trust you," he repeated, but his voice sounded thick and his eyes were half closed.

"Fine. You don't trust me. You still have to rest. It's got nothing to do with whether I like you or you trust me. It's common sense. We'll keep an eye on you until you can get a ride out of here. Just try to relax." He looked thoughtfully at Tritter. "Just for the record, do you have a warrant to search anything?"

Tritter looked uncomfortable. "No warrant," he admitted, "But I can follow you, if there's a crime in progress."

"What crime? Besides, you can't in New York State." House's voice was rising. Wilson recognized it as a mixture of incredulity and rage.

"House," Wilson cautioned, with a hand on his arm.

House shook him off and yelled at Tritter, "And how the hell did you find me here?"

"Tracking…" Tritter struggled to get the words out, "on Doctor Wilson's car."

"So you followed us to a medical conference in New York, then here? Did you sleep in your car? Did you circle the block yesterday when we were staying in the hotel? Did you evacuate like everyone was supposed to when they closed the subways ahead of the storm surge?"

House's anger was wasted on Tritter. The detective's eyes were closed and his head lolled on the sofa cushion.

House began pacing around the living room. Wilson watched him with concern. He'd seen that many times, how House was trying to distract himself from the pain in his leg. Finally House walked over to the spinet piano and stood with his hands braced on the top. "Why don't we play some music to pass the time? I'd rather think about music than my leg, or him." He jerked his head at Tritter, then sat down on the bench and kneaded his thigh. "But I've got to call my wife, first, so she can tell the Princeton Police Department that one of their detectives is missing. Wilson, call Fiona again. The sound of your worrying is filling the room."

Tritter's eyes opened and he tried to sit up. "You need to stay calm," Wilson told him. "It's nothing to do with our history. You've got to take it easy."

Wilson walked into the kitchen and brought back a can of soda and a mug. "Here, why don't you try to keep a little of this down?"

Tritter swallowed some soda and nodded. "Thank you, Doctor," he said, sounding chastened. He closed his eyes and fingered the gash on the side of his head. "How bad?" he asked.

"You have a concussion," Wilson told him.

Tritter nodded, but the motion was too much for him. He went white and swallowed convulsively but managed not to throw up again.

"Try not to move your head. We'll take care of you until we can get you to a hospital."

"I have to call my insurance company. That's my car out there. Can I have my bag?"

Hannah said, "We'll get you your wallet and phone."

"I want my bag," Tritter shouted.

Hannah stood in front of him again. "I don't think a man with a concussion and an attitude should have access to a firearm." House started to rise, to get between Tritter's fury and his friend.

"You can't keep my bag away from me!" Tritter shouted, as he struggled to stand up. The effect was ruined as he wavered, then grabbed the bucket. He heaved into it, gagging. He collapsed back on the sofa, hand on his head.

Hannah carried Tritter's maroon, soft-sided case back into her office on the far side of the living room and closed the double doors. Tritter leaned back against the cushion and rested his arm over his eyes.

The lights flickered again, and this time, stayed out. "Not unexpected," Hannah sighed.

House leaned back against the piano and hit speed dial to phone his wife at home. "Lisa? Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. You don't have to go in to the hospital, do you? They should be able to survive without you for a day. Well, just wait until they reopen the streets."

He listened for a moment. "No, I'm not a worrywart," he answered softly, in that tone that his voice only assumed when he was talking to her. "I just want you safe. Look, Lisa, there's something you need to know and to do for me. Tritter followed us here."

He paused, and Wilson could hear Lisa shout, "Tritter?" as he pulled the phone away from his ear.

"Yeah, he has no warrant so this is pretty weird, even for him. Anyway, he drove into open water in the lower parking lot and wrecked his car. He's lucky he didn't get washed into the Hudson. Hannah and Wilson and I rescued him from the car and he's on Hannah's couch with a concussion. We called 911 but the roads are flooded and we can't get an ambulance. It's too windy for helicopter rescue. Would you phone the Princeton police department and let them know he's here? With my history with him, it's got to be by the book."

He listened again for a moment. "If I weren't so angry, the thought of Hannah running a drug operation would be funny. Well, take care. Love you. Hug the kids for me."

Tritter struggled to sit up. He was nauseated again. Wilson barely got the bucket under his chin before he heaved bile into it. When he was done, he sat back gasping. "My head hurts."

"Tylenol," Wilson said. "No aspirin, since you're bleeding." He brought two tablets to Tritter and let him swallow them with his soda. Then Wilson shivered. He was still soaking wet. He grabbed a flashlight and a change of clothes and ducked into the second bathroom for a quick shower. Despite the power outage, the condo was still warm and the hot water was still hot. He soaped up and rinsed off, grateful to let the water warm him up. He toweled dry and wandered back into the living room in dry jeans, warm socks, and a thick, fleecy tan sweatshirt over an olive-green polo shirt.

House swiveled around with a groan on the piano bench and faced the keyboard. "Come on, Hannah. It's going to get cold in here. Let's play some music before our fingers get clumsy."

"I'm calling Fiona," Wilson said, walking into the kitchen. He looked at her picture on the screen as he hit 'one' on speed-dial. The red hair framed her face and brought out the blue of her eyes.

She picked up after two rings. "Hey. I miss you," he said.

"I miss you too," she said, with the soft Scottish lilt in her voice.

"You're feeling all right? Do you still have power?"

"James, I'm fine, but the electricity has been out for hours. Lisa turned up the heat before, so we should be able to keep warm."

He could hear purring in the phone. "Rachel's cat is in your lap?"

"She's on my shoulder. She hasn't liked my lap since the baby started kicking. She's been very clingy. She keeps changing humans. I think she reckons one of us can stop the wind. Now don't worry. Princeton has canceled classes until Thursday, so I can stay here." Wilson heard the catch in her voice. "James, I want to snuggle with you, not just talk to you. But it's good to hear your voice."

"I miss you so much. We're dry and safe here. I'll call again in three hours. Meanwhile, we'd better save our batteries. Love you."

"Say hello to Hannah for me. Love you," she returned, and disconnected the call.

Hannah walked into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of beer and a can of soda out of the refrigerator. "Help yourself, James," she said. She filled a bowl of pretzels. With his own bottle, he followed her back to the living room. She handed the beer to House at the piano, along with a coaster. The pretzels went on the coffee table. "Let's tune up." She opened the guitar case. "Give me an E." House hit the E below middle C. Hannah matched the bass E on her guitar to it. She tuned the other five strings. "It's good. Where do you want to start?" Wilson sat down in the overstuffed chair by the sofa and set his bottle on a coaster on the end table between the chair and the sofa.

"Let's start with, "Goodnight Irene." Key of D all right?"

"D it is."

Tritter pulled himself up again. "I'm lying here, injured, and you're going to play music?" he demanded. "You could at least offer me a beer."

"You're better off with soda," House said, keeping his voice very reasonable. "Think of it as a free concert. People pay money to hear Hannah sing."

"I thought she's a professor."

"Well, my CV is online. It's no secret. At any rate, geology is my day job. I'm also a folksinger. And Doctor House jams with several bands in your area. You're getting two concerts for the price of… Well, you didn't exactly pay for a ticket, did you, Detective?" She sat down on the straight chair next to the piano, sliding the guitar strap over her shoulders. "James, do you sing or play an instrument?"

"House doesn't believe it, but I can sing along without embarrassing myself."

House snorted, but with a fond twinkle in his eyes. He swiveled to look back at his stalker. Tritter's eyes were closed. House shrugged, then he put his hands on the piano keys and opened with a flourish in three-quarter time.

Wilson, sitting near Tritter in the big, overstuffed chair, sang along on the choruses in a soft, tentative tenor. He applauded when the song was finished.

"Hard Travelin'," Hannah suggested, "in C." House played an almost almost orchestral accompaniment. "Wow," she murmured, as they finished. "Your turn to pick a song."

"Wandering," he supplied. "Key of C work?"

"I like C - lots of good runs." She was chuckling with pleasure as she finished with a run as House did a bluesy trill on the piano. House went straight into "San Francisco Bay Blues," then "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime." Hannah leaned back in the chair and raised the neck of her guitar so she could rest her forehead against it. "That's better than sex," she said, with a sigh.

"Speak for yourself. But yeah, it is, nearly." He pulled his hands off the keys. "Hannah, do a couple I don't know."

"Can I have a beer too?" Tritter interrupted again.

House shrugged. "It's non-alcoholic. It won't hurt you if you can keep it down."

"What do you mean, non-alcoholic? What kind of scam are you running here, House?"

"Doctor's orders. I want to live to see my kids grow up."

Tritter snorted in derision, then turned green again and grabbed the bucket. Only bile was left, besides the cola. Wilson handed Tritter more tissues.

"Nice," House commented, and swung around back to the keyboard. Wilson stood up, got a bottle of the non-alcoholic beer, opened it, and set it on the end table, where Tritter could reach it.

"Here's one I've been working on," Hannah said, "'Summer Wages' by Ian Tyson." She sang it, finger picking on the guitar, and House picked up an accompaniment, keeping it soft so as to not to drown out the guitar.

"I just learned this one," Hannah said, after the last chord faded. "It's appropriate for today's weather. It's a true story, about a Colorado Highway Patrol officer who died in the Big Thompson Canyon flood. He was on the radio as the wall of water took him. It's called, 'Here Comes the Water.' Makes my hair stand up."

"Mine too," House admitted, as she finished. "Have a happier tune?"

Hannah grinned and put the guitar aside to pull out her concertina. "I do this one in concert. It's got a great chorus, so you two are gonna have to sing along. Greg, you've heard it before." With an introduction on the concertina that made the difficult instrument look easy, she sang, "Strike the bell, second mate, let us go below." All three were laughing by the time they got to the end. "Your turn."

Tritter, behind them, cleared his throat. Hannah said, "What can we do for you, Detective?"

"I need a hand to go to the," embarrassed, he swallowed, "I need to go to the bathroom."

"I'll help him. You two keep singing." Wilson got an arm around Tritter's back. "Up you go."

House ignored Tritter as he began "Saint James Infirmary." Hannah set the concertina aside and played rhythm guitar.

Wilson came back without him. "He says he'll be a while." He shook his head. "I hope he doesn't pass out in there."

Hannah turned back to the piano. "House, do you know "One Kind Favor"?"

"That's a real cheerful song."

"It sort of fits the weather."

House experimented with an accompaniment. "How's the key?"

Hannah hummed it. "A little high. It's all right. I'll just squeak on the high notes." She laughed. "And don't call me, 'Squeaky.'"

House grinned. "As you wish."

They sang, "There's three black coaches in the rain." The last chorus finished up with, "One kind favor I'll ask of you. Please see that my grave is kept clean."

House looked up from the keys. "Where's Tritter?"

"I'll see if he's okay." Hannah got up. The door to the bathroom was open. "What the…?"

She looked in the guest bedroom, then walked to the end of the hallway to the master bedroom. Wilson followed her protectively. "Detective," she asked, "What are you doing in my bedroom?"

"I must have gotten turned around."

"With your hands in my underwear drawer?"

"I'm looking for where you keep your drugs!" he shouted. "There is no way that an addict like Doctor House would have come all this way to play your piano!"

"Let me give you a tour of all my hiding places," she said silkily.

"Hannah, be careful," House told her, joining Wilson.

"Detective Tritter had better be careful," she said. "I don't keep drugs in my bedroom, Detective. Come with me." Hannah led him into the master bath. The top of her head didn't reach the top of Tritter's shoulder. Tritter shuffled, his head injury obviously affecting his balance. She looked like a bantam baiting a bull.

"I already looked there," he snarled.

"You must have missed the important stuff." Hannah opened her medicine cabinet. "Let's see… Ah yes. Here's a dangerous substance." She handed Tritter a plastic bottle.

"What's the big idea? It's baby aspirin!"

"I'm sixty-three, Detective, what I like to think of as very late middle-aged. People my age take baby aspirin." She held out her hand. "Give it back." He slammed it into her palm. "Maybe I abuse prescription drugs." She reached for another bottle, this one an amber-colored vial. "How's this for a controlled substance?"

"What is it?"

"It's a statin. My cholesterol is up a bit. I've had to give up cheese and eggs."

"What kind of game are you playing!" he shouted.

"Wait a few years. You'll be taking baby aspirin and a statin drug too. Wanna see my stash?"

Tritter practically growled.

"Follow me," Hannah ordered. She pushed past him and walked into the second bedroom. "Ah, here it is," she crooned. "My precious…" She pulled a see-through plastic bin out of the closet. Wilson, following behind Tritter, had trouble keeping from laughing out loud.

"It's yarn," Tritter complained. He wasn't shouting anymore.

"Yeah. I knit. Or I wish I had time to knit. So this is my stash of lovely yarn for when I can finally get back to it. Knitters have yarn stashes."

"This is obstruction of justice," Tritter bellowed.

"Because I'm a frustrated knitter? Or because I'm sixty-three?"

"You have to be dealing. How else could you afford a big place like this on a teacher's salary?"

Hannah wheeled on him and took a deep breath. "Probably half of the owners in this complex are faculty at one of the colleges or universities here. But yes, this is one of the largest units. I'm a full professor at Columbia and they pay me very well, but if you really had done your homework, you would have discovered that my husband was killed by a drunk driver, over thirty years ago in Nevada, when I was in graduate school. He was working for a mining company when he was killed, so his life insurance, the settlements from company insurance, and from the guy in the huge pick-up truck that crossed the center line and crashed into him helped me to finish my masters degree in Nevada and my doctorate at MIT, and I used some of the rest for a down payment for this place. And let me tell you, it doesn't make up for all those years I didn't get to have with my husband! He was only twenty-nine. He was one of the good guys."

Tritter seemed to deflate. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm very sorry." He staggered.

Hannah shoved past him. "Well, you should be," she snapped. "If I were you, I'd sit down. You still have a concussion." She grabbed a CD off a shelf. "Here's my drug," she said, "Music, or music and coffee. It's a copy of my first recording and you can have it. I'll put it in your bag. Now get back to the living room because if you fall down, I can't catch you."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and shuffled after her back to the living room.

House followed both of them and Wilson followed House. House worried him. He was limping more heavily than usual and obviously was in considerable pain. Wilson almost launched into Tritter with a tirade of his own, but held his tongue. Hannah seemed to have cowed the big man effectively.

Wilson looked at his watch. "Sit down, Tritter," he ordered. Time for a neuro check." Tritter let him go through a basic head injury protocol with him, then fell asleep. Wilson looked up and asked softly, "What's the storm doing?"

"I could persuade myself the rain isn't coming down as hard. Trees are still whipping around."

House turned his phone back on. The ringtone played the introduction to Etta James' version of "At last," and he picked up the call. "Lisa?" House spoke softly. "He's concussed and needs to get to a hospital, but the emergency dispatcher says that they aren't going to send anyone until late today or tomorrow."

He listened for a moment. "Are the kids all right? They're not scared, are they? I guess Bobby is too little to know the difference. Put Rachel on." There was a pause. "Hi, Rach," he said. Are you and Mama having fun listening to the wind?"

Fascinated, Wilson listened to how House's voice changed when he was talking to the little girl. "Yes, your Papa and Uncle James are really stuck at Aunt Hannah's house. Rach, we're kind of on an island, like pirates. But I have an idea. You and Mama and Bobby should get the box of Fruit Loops and sit in the living room and watch the storm. Well, of course, Bobby can't eat Fruit Loops yet. I don't have Fruit Loops, but I have pretzels. So I'll watch the storm here and you watch it there, and we'll be watching it together, okay?" He listened for a reply. "Now put Mama back on. Love you."

He listened again, then, "No wonder the Princeton Police Department is confused about Tritter." He sighed. "At least my parole officer let us come here. I'd hate to be stuck for a couple days sleeping on a cot in a high school. Lisa, I'll keep you posted. I love you."

He listened for another moment, then put the phone in his pocket.

"Is Lisa okay?" Wilson asked.

"Worried. She let the police know Tritter is with us. Fiona all right?"

"She said she's fine."

Hannah asked, "Is Rachel still into pirates?"

"It's worse. We tried to divert her by showing her the Disney version of _Treasure Island_. Now she wants to be Long John Silver. She wants a parrot."

"A parrot?"

"I told her I'm allergic to birds."

"Are you?"

"Everybody lies. Do you know what kind of diseases a parrot carries?" He sighed. "Instead of taking her on a fossil-hunting expedition next summer, she may want you to find her a treasure."

"I don't have access to golden doubloons. But maybe we can hunt for something shiny."

"Sounds good." House kneaded his thigh again, then started pacing around the room. "Damn, it hurts," he said. He put a hand on Hannah's shoulder. "Music helps. Let's do some requests." House returned to the piano.

"You know any Irish songs?" Tritter mumbled, from where he lay on the sofa.

Hannah closed her eyes for a minute, then with the concertina started in on "Foggy Dew." As usual, House had a solid accompaniment going by the time she got halfway through the first verse. She followed with "Finnegan's Wake," although she skipped a couple verses, then finished with "Rare Ould Times." Tritter thanked them with a snore. Hannah giggled, picked up her guitar, and launched into "Viva le Quince Brigada" and "Venga Jaleo."

"Spanish Civil War songs?" House laughed. "Oh, Lord, I'd forgotten you're an old folk singer."

Hannah retaliated with "Peat Bog Soldiers," partly in German. She finished with the final chorus, more triumphant in the original German, "Dann ziehn die Moorsoldaten/Nicht mehr mit dem Spaten/Ins Moor!"

"That is fine," Wilson breathed. "Then no more will the peat bog soldiers go marching with their spades."

"You'll know the harmony, if not the words on the next one," Hannah said. She picked out a C chord and sang, "Because All Men Are Brothers."

House played the melody and three harmony lines on the piano, singing the base line. "Can't miss when Bach writes the music."

"Don't mess with Bach."

Wilson grinned, knowing how much it would bug House. "How about some show tunes? Evita?"

"I have to go to the bathroom, again," Tritter interrupted. He was sitting up again, head in his hands. "I'm dizzy."

"My turn," House said, grateful for the distraction. He grabbed his cane and limped over to the sofa. He took Tritter's arm. "Let's go." They moved off to the guest bath. Tritter went in and closed the door. House leaned against the hallway wall across from the door, massaging his right thigh while waiting.

After a few minutes, Tritter opened the door and came out, leaning for a moment against the door frame. He was pale and sweating. House reached for him with his left hand. Tritter staggered, then half collapsed. Reflexively, House braced himself and tried to catch him. As Tritter's weight hit the ruined nerves and muscles in House's thigh, House cried out and ended up on the floor, curled around his bad leg.

"What's wrong with him?" Tritter demanded, voice slurred, holding himself up with one hand on the bathroom doorframe.

Wilson jumped up and ran to House's side. "Breakthrough pain." He dropped to his knees by House's side. With his left hand he found the pulse in House's neck and started counting. "He's tachycardic. His pulse is 150. I don't have a blood pressure cuff but I bet it's through the roof. He doesn't travel with any drugs that are adequate for this. Normally he'd go to an emergency room."

"I already got him his ibuprofen," Hannah said.

"That's not enough. Bring me his medical bag, would you? I'm hoping he has something stronger."

House tried to speak. "Nothing strong enough. Aspirin," he muttered, then gasped and returned to trying to massage his leg with both hands.

"Hold on, House," James said. He started to massage House's carotid.

Tritter stayed in the hallway, leaning against the wall, a stricken look on his face. "What are you doing?"

Wilson nearly snarled. "I'm trying to keep him from having a heart attack!"

"Why don't you just give him vicodin?"

"He doesn't use it anymore, Tritter."

"I didn't know."

Hannah returned from the living room with Wilson's medical bag. "Here," and then ran into the kitchen and brought back a glass of water. She dropped to her knees beside House and Wilson.

Wilson lifted House's head. "Come on, House." House took the two aspirin tablets and washed them down. He rested his head back on the floor.

"Is his heart rate coming down?" Hannah asked.

Wilson shook his head 'no.'

The phone rang. Hannah took it in the kitchen. She walked out with the receiver, long cord curling behind her. "The winds have died down for a little while. They estimate there's a window of maybe forty-five minutes when they can fly safely. They want to know if we still need a helicopter."

"We'll have to add House to the evacuation. Let me talk to them."

Hannah handed the phone to Wilson. "We have two patients. Do you have room for both of them? I'm a doctor. I probably ought to ride along. Tell the pilot to pick us up at the back of the building, please. The front is under water." He listened. "ETA about fifteen minutes." He crouched by House who was sweating and trying not to cry out. "Do you want to go to the hospital?"

House got his eyes open. "Yes," he gasped. His eyes rolled back in his head.

"Hannah, why don't you help the detective get his luggage."

Tritter's bag was set by House's backpack by the door. "There's a grassy area where they can land in the back," Hannah observed.

"Speed is important here. It would go faster if we could get these two out to the sidewalk." Wilson squatted down by House. "It's only three steps. Can you handle it or do you need a gurney?"

He sat up, breathing heavily. "I'll try."

"Give me a number."

It took House a moment to answer. "Eight," he grunted. "Maybe nine."

Wilson winced. "Well, let's see if I can get you up." He turned to Hannah. "I have no idea which hospital they use. I'll call you once we're there. We'll call Lisa."

Hannah squatted by House. "I hope you feel better," she murmured. She looked up. "James, if you need me to, I can drive your car to Princeton this weekend."

He nodded. "Thank you. I'll come back for it if the roads reopen. And I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's been an eventful storm."

"Here's my car keys."

Tritter cleared his throat. "Doctor House, I'm sorry I misjudged you."

House nodded, once.

The detective continued, "I'm sorry, Professor," he said. "I'm sorry." He shifted his weight on his feet, got dizzy again, and leaned against the wall. "I have a granddaughter. Can you take her fossil hunting too?"

Hannah took a breath to argue, shook her head, and said, "My website is on that CD I put in your bag. You can e-mail me, okay?"

"Thank you."

"Ready to go, Tritter?" Wilson asked.

Tritter stooped and put an arm under House's shoulders. "Up you go, Doctor. I've got you."

"Who's got you?" House muttered, as he allowed himself to be lifted to his feet. He staggered and reached around Tritter's shoulders as he steadied himself. He was flushed and breathing as if he had run a distance. Hannah handed him his cane.

"I've got him," Wilson said, with an arm around Tritter's back. "Let's go."

They heard the whup whup of the helicopter as they left the apartment and headed for the back parking lot.

-End-

* * *

_"Because All Men Are Brothers," words by Joe Glazer, music by J. S. Bach._

_"Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" Lyrics by Yip Harburg and music by Jay Gorney._

_"The Foggy Dew," by Canon Charles O'Neill._

_"Goodnight, Irene," by Huddie 'Lead Belly' Ledbetter._

_"Hard Travelin'," by Woody Guthrie._

_"Here Comes the Water," by Chuck Pyle._

_"Saint James Infirmary," traditional blues, lyrics attributed to Irving Mills.  
_

_"One Kind Favor," by Blind Lemon Jefferson._

_"Peat Bog Soldiers," written by prisoners in Nazi moorland labor camps._

_"The Rare Ould Times," by Pete St. John._

_"San Francisco Bay Blues," by Jesse Fuller._

_"Strike the Bell," traditional sea chantey.  
_

_"Wanderin'," traditional American, adapted by Sammy Kaye._


End file.
